


A Queen's Vigor

by Lohrendrell



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Meve-centric (The Witcher), Meve/Reynard (Pre-Relationship), Non-Graphic Violence, Past Character Death, Spoils of War, Thronebreaker Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29078499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell
Summary: In the Moulderwood in Aedirn, after a gruesome battle, Queen Meve dreams of memories long past.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon & Meve, Meve/Reynard Odo
Comments: 14
Kudos: 21
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #05





	A Queen's Vigor

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Marianne for proofreading this and being amazing at it! <3

The fires don’t seem like they'll be ceasing any time soon. It could be midnight for all Meve knows. The sky is ash; daylight seems to originate from nothing but the flames dancing upwards, consuming even the thickest portions of the woods and muddling up daytime even as night settles. In the forest of Aedirn, in the middle of the war against Nilfgaard, there’s no leeway to rest. The smell of ash and burnt soil fills the air, suffocating any kind of forward thinking, and tonight, the pyres are bigger than ever.

Lyrian casualties are resting for one last time in the largest pyre not twenty meters away from Eldain’s grave. Meve knows her decision to give the man an honorable burial will be fodder for controversy for a long time. She nods to the soldiers that agreed with her and helped with the makeshift ceremony for their enemy, and pretends not to see the looks of disapproval from the other half of her men.

Her small army makes camp barely fifty meters away from the corpses. There’s nowhere else to go, not with the fire smoke dimming their vision. Her soldiers are tired and morale right now is... delicate, if she’s being delicate about it herself. Meve’s tent is usually in the middle of the camp, protected. Tonight, however, she settles closest to the burial pyre, a show off sign that she trusts her own decisions, and won’t back away from the consequences.

“Your Grace.”

Meve recognizes the soothing voice of her most trusted ally. Reynard approaches prudently but steadily, the kind of walk she’s only seen in the most honorable of kings—the two she’s met in her existence.

“Thank you, Reynard,” Meve says, taking one of the bowls of soup from Reynard’s hand.

Reynard takes a seat beside her, on one of the two improvised royal chairs—just a couple of pillows sewn into pieces of wood, really, but it’s the only remotely comfortable thing Meve has after days in the saddle and incessant battles; she’ll take what she can without complaints.

They slurp their turnip soup in silence. It’s too thin to really fill the belly and too hot to actually taste. It’s made from the half portion of provisions Meve stole from the villagers not two nights ago.

(Stole, because no matter how much she speechifies her way around her actions, justifying them as spoils of war, the bottom line is very simple: at times, the survival of her men depends on questionable deeds, and if Meve must steal half of a village’s food supply to guarantee her success in this war, she will do so.)

(She will make up for it when she gets her throne back.)

( _She will_.)

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, your Grace,” Reynard says quietly.

Meve lifts her gaze from her soup to see him watching her.

Reynard continues, “Hadn’t you taken your soldiers’ request, we’d not only be starving, but having an uprising rebellion on our hands. Our men need to be fed.”

“Am I that obvious?” Meve asks, mirth in her tone.

“Not at all. I just…” Reynard looks away. “I noticed you looking at your soup.” He whispers, “I pay attention, that’s all.”

Meve laughs a little, a disparity from the tightening in her chest when she looks at him.

“At ease, soldier,” she says, as kindly as she can, “at ease.”

Reynard breathes. This close, Meve can feel his body slumping back on the makeshift royal pillow. In these godsforsaken woods, despite the smell of incineration filling her nostrils and dark ash smudging her hair, Meve has a brief, yet very pleasant thought.

She leans on Reynard’s side, pleased when he doesn’t shift away; amused when he doesn’t do anything else. This man’s humbleness, his courteousness, could very well mean the death of him—it almost did when he refused to bend the knee to Villem in her name—but Meve might as well be damned if she won’t be there to serve as a shield between him and the world’s rottenness.

Not all kings are born in a golden cradle, as the saying goes. Meve is selfishly grateful Reynard wasn’t her king when she took the throne. She wouldn’t have been the queen a man like him deserves by then.

Her very nice thoughts about Reynard and how close he is form her are interrupted by Gascon, who, in yet another display of inelegance, approaches the queen’s tent as if it belonged to one of his crewmates.

(Meve is holding tight to her chest how much she appreciates this young man.)

“Meve,” Gascon says, squatting inelegantly beside her, and proceeds to report the happenings of the camp. Rayla and her men are still seething over Meve’s decision in that cave a couple of days ago. Eldain’s defeat has done little to reassure her of Meve’s stance in this war. “Whispers of defection,” Gascon tells her, whispering those words himself.

“We must not let those whispers become roars, your grace,” Reynard says.

“Attack them before they attack Meve?” Gascon asks, eyes glinting with a distinct kind of vitality, the kind seen in a feral dog that witnesses its pack being attacked.

It takes her by surprise.

“Lyrians are loyal to their queen, but our army is small,” Reynard says. “Your Grace, I’d suggest you keep an eye on Rayla’s units, deescalate those murmurs, but don’t act in haste.”

“Very well,” Meve says. “Send your men to keep an eye on Rayla and her crew. I won’t tolerate treason, but I won’t spur up a fight if I don’t have to.”

Gascon nods and leaves.

“Thank you, Reynard,” Meve says once they’re alone again. Truly alone—the only moment her guards are allowed to leave the queen is when Reynard is beside her. “For your advice. For your loyalty, for not breaking in Lyria, under Caldwell’s pressure. For everything.”

“No need to thank me, your Grace.”

 _Meve_ , she wants to tell him. She will tell him. When all of this is over, when she takes her throne back. She will take her crown, she will take her name back. She will take _everything_.

“Rest,” she orders, and when Reynard shifts into a more comfortable position, draping his cape over her, Meve squeezes closer, for once unabashed in this false sense of privacy.

The pyre clacks, the smoky wind ruffles the leaves in the trees. Nature is having a conversation of its own. Meve watches the flames, resting her head on Reynard’s shoulder. A symbol of destruction, she knows—she’s witnessed it—but one that never reached her. To her heart, pyres hold an entirely different meaning. Meve loses herself in thoughts, memories, exhaustion and the warm cracking lulling her into unconsciousness.

Before she realizes, she’s closing her eyes.

* * *

Meve is fourteen the first time she successfully sneaks out of a formal gathering. It’s not the first time she’s _tried_ to but, as the daughter of a very protective king and queen, she barely knows what it means to breathe by herself—walking away in her own shoes without servants’ watchful eyes over her would be unthinkable.

It’s the wine that does it, though. Toussaint wine of whatever kind or variety, she doesn’t care. It makes all the adults drunk enough not to notice when she quietly rises from the table, pretending to go watch the bluebirds singing in a nearby tree. When her uncle Borko rises to give yet another slurred speech in cousin Calanthe’s honor, drawing everyone’s attention by clicking his wine glass with an overly decorated silver spoon, Meve slips away.

Toussaint isn’t nearly as big as Lyria, but the colorful and elegant streets in Beauclair make up for it. Meve walks aimlessly for a while, enjoying the musical and theatrical displays the city has in abundance, only stopping when a swordfighting display catches her attention.

A man and a woman are clashing in an unfamiliar dance with swords she’s never seen before. They’re simultaneously brutal and elegant, with fast-paced movements merged with hard punches. The woman charges at the man, who deflects her sword with his own; in turn, the woman does a quick pirouette, pummeling the man with her elbow.

Meve can’t help but stare. She knows it’s only a display, they aren’t fighting for real, or else the guards in town would’ve separated them already. Still, it’s mesmerizing. She doesn’t even recognize the type of sword they’re brandishing, which only enhances the novelty. Meve is well-versed in everything related to combat—in theory, at least; her parents won’t let her anywhere near even a dagger, and the few attempts at sneaking out one or two blades for secret practice barely lasted a day.

She’s still watching the sword-dancing-fight, enthralled, when someone stops by her side.

Meve looks up, expecting a guard or maybe one of her ladies-in-waiting, or maybe even her father, who sometimes humours her and watches combats by her side.

It’s her cousin Calanthe instead.

“The lizard dance,” Calanthe says, with that cocky grin of hers that drives Meve (and everyone else, she’s pretty sure, although nobody is willing to say it) mad. Cousin Calanthe and cousin Dagobert are just the same, especially in their most irritating flaws, but far from anyone to tell either of them _that_.

Meve frowns, making a point of looking back intently at the pair of sword masters.

“It’s a Skelligean sword dance,” Calanthe informs her, unaware or perhaps uncaring of Meve’s not-so-subtle dismissal. “Very traditional.”

 _I don’t care_ , Meve wants to say, but doesn’t because it’s not true at all. (And because she’s a princess and princesses don’t lack decorum, not ever, especially not before a queen.)

She says nothing.

“It’s not an actual combat style,” Calanthe continues, unprompted. “It’s said it goes back all the way to the Drummond Days in Skellige, when the First Queen took the isles by her rule. Her warriors danced in honor of her victory, and it soon became tradition. Sadly, the tradition has been lost. Now you’ll only see it like this, in the form of street art.”

Meve stays silent.

“Don’t you think that’s interesting? Hmm? Hey, kid?” Calanthe pokes her.

Meve shoves Calanthe’s hand away. “Don’t poke me!”

Calanthe holds both her hands up, startled, eyes wide. She’s still smirking when she says, “Hey, calm down. I’m not doing anything, you just weren't answering.”

“I don’t _need_ to answer you,” Meve says, and looks around to see if any of Calanthe’s guards—or worse, Meve’s parents—heard such insolence. She only spots a couple of queen’s guardsmen a few meters away, politely keeping their distance.

Calanthe laughs. “I know I don’t need to tell you that when a queen talks to you, you answer, kid. I know Auntie raised you better than that.”

“I’m not your subject,” Meve says, petulantly, “and we’re not in Cintra, so you can’t order me. And for all intents and purposes, we’re of the same cast.”

“Oh, I’m talking to a queen, is that so?”

“A future queen,” Meve answers, nose held high. The female swordmaster tries to pin her partner to the ground; with a pirouette, he frees himself and thrusts her a few feet away.

“Well, I beg your forgiveness for the ignorance, _future queen_ , but last I checked, present and future are not the same, and shouldn’t be treated as if they were.”

“That’s not what Master Borislav says,” Meve answers quickly, “he says—”

“A true ruler lives in the present and thinks five years ahead, I know, _I know_. By the gods, I can’t believe I’m being lectured by a kid.”

“Don’t call me kid.”

“Oh, sorry. I can’t believe I’m being lectured by a _future queen_.” Calanthe clacks her tongue and sighs, muttering to herself, “I thought I’d escape it all when I took the crown.”

Meve huffs, crossing her arms in indignance. Lecture? As if. Calanthe wouldn’t know what being lectured was until Meve’s mother gave her a piece of her mind. _Maybe if you spent more time in actual lessons and less time in the battlefield, you wouldn’t have to be lectured_ , Meve wants to say, but even she knows where the line lies when talking to a queen, even when the queen is her annoying cousin.

Because at the end of the day, that’s what this is all about: Calanthe is the reason the entire family took the trip to Toussaint. She is the reason the House of Raven-Cerbin is pushing for more power amongst royals. All members of their family, every branch, including those who took roots in other kingdoms, came to Toussaint for this purpose. It’s the Duke’s way of forging alliances, Meve knows—she excels in political studies, as her father proudly announces everywhere they go—a necessity especially now, after the battle in Hochebuz. With Calanthe’s rising reputation as a fearsome Queen, the small duchy, fragile and ally-less, is trying to buy her with the best they have to offer: wine.

And of course their relatives took the opportunity to boast and glutton on their prodigy’s expense. It’s always been this way, always _Calanthe this, Calanthe that_ , always _Calanthe wouldn’t act the way you’re acting_ , or, _Calanthe at your age was already forming alliances of her own_. Calanthe gets to be a fearsome queen who wins battles of her own. Meve isn’t even allowed to hold a dagger or hold meetings by herself; she’s promised to the King of Rivia, will be wed in a few years, as soon as she’s of age.

Her mother says future queens mustn’t weep over uncontrollable past deeds. Meve has yet to learn how.

“How do you know all of that?” Meve ends up asking after a while. The pair of swordmasters have taken a break, and Meve has already left them all the coins she’d been carrying. Her father says it’s best to talk when corrosive thoughts beg to bedim one’s mind.

“Because they’re my friends,” Calanthe laughs, and then whistles at the pair, who wave her over.

Meve is suddenly being pushed—a steady hand on her back—towards the pair. They’re all smiles behind the rugged clothes and battle scars, the kind of people Meve always wished would be friends with her.

“Eydis, Folke,” Calanthe greets them with a cheek-to-cheek smile. “Met my cousin, yet? The Princess of Lyria?”

“A princess, ay,” the woman, Eydis, says when Calanthe is finished with the proper introductions. The man, Folke, ruffles Meve’s hair. It’s all the acknowledgement they give her—no curtsy, no other kinds of formal pleasantries—and their attention goes back to Calanthe.

On a normal day, Meve would throw a tantrum over that—her mother taught her well, no future queen should take any less than the utmost respect.

On this day, however, Meve finds she doesn’t care. She quickly realizes these people don’t hold the same traditions as that of her lands, she’s well-read enough in Skelligean culture not to take it personally.

Furthermore, Eydis and Folke spend the next hour telling Meve and Calanthe all about their recent travels, where they got those _sweet, sweet_ swords (her mother would have a heart attack if she heard Meve’s thoughts), and every other kind of stories. They even let Meve brandish a few of their swords for a bit.

An hour stretches into two, three, and before Meve realizes it, they’ve spent the entire afternoon exchanging warrior stories. Well, Calanthe, Eydis and Folke have; Meve has spent most of the time quiet, just listening, absorbing everything they had to teach her, holding tight to the dagger Eydis had decided to let her have as a gift.

Meve has no words to thank the warrior for her kindness. She clutches the dagger tightly, already plotting strategies to hide this blade successfully, and how she’ll manage to sneak up and train with it when nobody’s looking. 

It’s evening when Calanthe gets up and, stretching her limbs, says, “So, how about we get out of here?”

Meve gets on her feet along with Eydis and Folke, assuming her cousin means they’re going back to Beauclair Castle. Half the quarters of the castle are reserved for the Lioness of Cintra, and Meve imagines Calanthe will want to host her friends for the night.

She’s taken by surprise when Calanthe asks instead, “So, where are you two staying? Are you here by yourselves or did your troupe come?”

“Drummonds stick together,” Folke says with his heavy accent, “we made camp by the lake.”

“Join us, Queen,” Eydis says, “so we can have more of the Great Lioness’ tales.”

“Lead us, then,” Calanthe says, gesturing for the pair to go ahead, but before she can follow them, Meve grabs her arm and pulls her aside.

“Are you crazy?” Meve asks, trying to keep her voice quiet and failing. “You can’t possibly be expecting us to follow them?”

“Why not?”

“Calanthe! They’re strangers!”

“No, they’re not. They’re cool.”

Meve crosses her arms. The dagger is sheathed, but its intricate decoration pokes her skin. “It’s night time,” she argues.

“So?”

“So it’s time we’ve gone back to the castle! Soon there’ll be search parties for us. If we don’t get back in time for dinner we’ll be—”

“Don’t be such a buzzkill, princess. We’re fine, we’ll be fine.”

“You’re not listening—”

“Meve, _shut up_.” Calanthe doesn’t roar, but her tone is similar enough to Meve’s mother’s to give her pause. “Listen, princess, if you want to go back, you go back. I won’t. I’m not going back to that boring party, with those piss-drunk snotty nobles who only know how to pamper and boast our lineage, and do a lousy job at that. You don’t have to come with me, but I know you can’t stand that place either. You wouldn’t have sneaked out if you did.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing,” Meve says, indignant. “It’s the rules, Calanthe, we can’t just sneak out and expect there not to be any consequences—”

“Why not?”

“Why n—Well!” Meve sputters. “Because!”

Calanthe laughs a little, so similarly to cousin Dagobert it’s uncanny. How can two people hate each other so much when they’re so alike? Meve’s father used to ask that question every time the family gathered together when Meve was a child, and Calanthe and Dagobert invariably threw arms.

“You worry too much over insignificant matters, kid. Once you’re queen, you’re gonna have to learn how to choose what weights you want in your head, or you’ll be driven insane.”

“That… doesn’t…”

“Doesn’t what?”

Meve says nothing.

Calanthe huffs, looks around in exasperation, her hands on her waist. “Well, I’m not waiting all evening for an answer, girl. Either come with us or go back to the castle. My men will escort you. But don’t keep us waiting.”

Meve bites her lip, conflicted. 

Finally, she asks, “You promise nothing bad will happen?”

“By decree of the Queen.” Calanthe winks at her. “C’mon.” She turns Meve around, pulling her towards Eydis and Folke, who’ve been waiting at a respectful distance.

“You didn’t tell me what y’all are doing here yet,” Calanthe says once they start walking again—the three warriors taking the lead, Meve following them. Calanthe’s two guardsmen follow right behind her. Meve can’t distinguish properly between the pounding of her heart and the clanking of the guards’ armors as they walk.

“Passing by, really,” Eydis says.

“All the way here, to Toussaint?”

“Sometimes it’s nice to get to discover new places,” Folke says, his thick accent catching up a bit more in some of the words, “witness simple life away from the sea.”

“Simple,” Calanthe repeats in mock-offence. “I’ll show you simple, islander.” She shoves Folke, who stumbles just a little and shoves her back. The guardsmen instantly spur into action, but Calanthe waves them off.

“Stop it, you two,” Eydis says, “you’re scaring the princess.”

“I’m not scared!” Meve says, perhaps a bit too quickly. The other three laugh. She huffs.

Eydis and Folke’s camp is nothing more than a handful of tents assembled on the margins of the lake. There are maybe a dozen or so Skelligers walking around. Meve hears laughter and smells fish soup, but none of that draws her attention as much as the pyre lit a couple of meters away from the tents.

It’s a kind of—decoration? Religious monument? Just a source of heat? She doesn’t know—it’s different to anything she’s ever seen before. The pyre is taller than her, its flames rising up to the sky. With Toussaint’s beautiful landscape, it’s a sight to behold. It smells nice, too; Meve wonders why.

“Hey, princess,” Eydis calls, waving Meve over to where everyone has sat in a circle.

She sits beside Eydis; Calanthe is on the opposite side of the circle, talking animatedly with her fellow Skelligers. Even her guardsmen are sitting in the circle, and Meve notices them trying and failing not to appear to be enjoying themselves too much.

As for herself, Meve keeps quiet, preferring to listen to the conversation around her. These are all warriors sitting beside her; battle scars adorning their faces, spoils of war embellishing their otherwise simple vests. Stories and more stories about hard-won victories, soul-crushing defeats.

That Meve is allowed to sit with these kinds of people is… It’s just marvelous on its own. She wonders whether she’ll ever manage to reconcile this moment with her own reality.

A bowl of fish soup is pushed into her hands. It tastes like fish; and yet, it doesn’t taste like anything Meve has ever tried before. There’s something in the warmth of the fire, in the presence of these battle-scarred warriors, the novelty of it all, that makes Meve feel cozy and sprightly in a way she’s never felt before.

Meve wonders whether she’ll ever bear a scar on her face—whether she’ll ever carry her own spoils of war someday.

There’s dancing at some point. Around the pyre, bare feet disrupt the soft grass guarding the margins of the lake in rhythmic struts. There’s singing too. There’s laughter and thick accents and companionship, one Meve already knows—she just _knows_ —she won’t find anywhere at court.

Calanthe draws her in to a dance eventually, grinning from cheek to cheek, a rustic crown made of twigs and tiny flowers on her head. Meve goes willingly, too shy before to do so by herself, but too eager to remember the jealousness that caused her animosity towards her cousin.

Meve dances, unabashed despite the clear inadequacy of her steps—she isn’t well-versed in a single foreing form of dancing and is terrible even at the simplest, most traditional Lyrian courtroom waltz. She doesn’t care. She dances even though she can’t keep up with the steps, she laughs even though she doesn’t understand the jokes, and she sings even though she doesn’t know the lyrics.

Calanthe holds another twig crown in her hands. She reaches over, crowns Meve with it.

“By your liege, Your Majesty,” Meve says, curtsying, and laughs—not with scorn.

“By your liege, My Queen,” Calanthe says. She smiles, but her tone is serious. There’s weight in those words, Meve senses somehow, but she can’t quite grasp it; in an instant, it’s gone.

The fire burns behind them. Calanthe laughs. Their comrades sing. The improvised party lasts into the night.

* * *

“Your Grace.”

Meve opens her eyes to the quiet moments before dawn.

Reynard’s voice feels like linen. He’s close. “Your Grace, morning approaches.”

Meve straightens up, Reynard’s cape falling from her shoulders as she moves. The fire has been extinguished. The light breeze feels cold compared to Reynard’s arms.

“Reynard.” She yawns. “Did you get any sleep at all, good man?”

“I’m well rested.”

Meve looks at him. “What’s up with that?”

“What’s up with what, my Queen?”

“That smile of yours.”

“Nothing, my Queen.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me, soldier.” Meve tries not to smile herself. She refrains from touching Reynard’s face; this is not the right place, nor the right time. “Tell me.”

“You were humming in your sleep. A melody I didn’t recognize.” Reynard’s small smile is now a full grin. “Seems like you were having a pleasant dream.”

“Mm.”

Meve yawns again, brushes her hair with her fingers. Her greyish white hair is smudged from all the smoke, greasy from many days in the saddle. It’s only saved from knots by her braid. She undoes it, only to do a new one.

“I was,” she says. “It was a very pleasant dream.”

“Those are good for the soul.”

Meve thinks of a warm summer in Toussaint many years ago. She thinks of a pyre under the moonlight, of laughter, song, and dancing, the feeling of brandishing a real sword for the first time, the sense of freedom no royal title has ever managed to replace. She thinks of Calanthe’s shit-eating grin, the start of a friendship that would last for decades, holding up empires with sheer loyalty.

So many decades ago—it feels more like a dream than a distant memory.

“Indeed,” she says, “they are good for the soul.”

She thinks of the messenger boy galloping into Lyria with urgency, bearing news of the invasion of Cintra. She thinks of the thousands and thousands of refugees seeking aid from the lands of their Queen’s closest ally. She conjures the mental image of Calanthe jumping off a window, surrounded by enemies but refusing to declare their victory.

She thinks of her grandniece, lost to the world in this senseless war.

She thinks of the Black Suns, trotting around _her_ kingdom as if they had the right, pronouncing their allegiance to the Eternal Empire, pillaging _her_ lands, tormenting _her_ subjects.

“I’m awake now,” she says.

Reynard promptly stands to his feet. He adjusts his cape properly over his own shoulder. “By your leave, Your Grace.”

“Dismissed. Go attend to your personal needs. Be by my side in an hour. We ride at dawn.”

Reynard salutes and leaves.

In the last moments before dawn, Meve takes her time to ruminate over her own thoughts as she braids her hair. She breathes in and out. She watches the remains of the pyre where some of her loyal soldiers will forever rest.

The fire that served as their last embrace has died in the night. Meve’s fury has not.


End file.
